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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28276293">When the Fates Allow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromedabennet/pseuds/andromedabennet'>andromedabennet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bellamy has big dad energy, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Discovering Family, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Genealogy, Historical, Historical References, Lost Love, Lost letters, Modern Era, Two OCs but they're both dead, clarke is an actual mom, home love family</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:53:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,044</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28276293</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromedabennet/pseuds/andromedabennet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1955, Miss Camille Marquet wrote one final letter to the man she could never be with — Mr. Efren Blake. Sixty years later, her granddaughter Clarke Griffin finds a stranger on her doorstep who claims to have received a letter from Camille, despite the fact that she’s been dead for two years. A Christmas card lost in the post for six decades gives Bellamy Blake, Efren’s grandson, a chance to discover more about the family he’s never known, but only if Clarke is willing to help him.</p><p>And along the way, Clarke and her daughter give Bellamy a lot more than a past — they give him a future, too.</p><p>[A “letter lost in the mail” Christmas fic]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>162</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>bellarkescord advent calendar</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>When the Fates Allow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story was written for the Bellarkescord Advent Calendar.</p><p>It's a Christmas story, I swear — but it does take a little while to get there.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  <b>[August]</b>
</p><p>When Clarke’s doorbell rings at half two, she’s a bit put out, to be honest. She hadn’t made any plans today, her friends haven’t mentioned visiting, and no packages are scheduled for delivery. Stella just went down for her nap, too, so the noise has Clarke cursing in her head.</p><p>She considers not answering the door, assuming whoever it is has the wrong house or is trying to convert her. </p><p>But then the bell rings <em> again, </em> and if her daughter wakes up because someone can’t get the message…</p><p>She purses her lips, stalking over to the door before the person can try a third time.</p><p>“What?” She asks, throwing the door open. The man on the other side isn’t what she expected — he’s wearing neither the polo of an Amazon driver nor the short sleeved white button up of a Mormon.</p><p>The voice in the back of her head deigns to include that, in his completely normal blue henley, he’s incredibly attractive, but since she’s also certain that he’s a total stranger, it still begs the question of why he’s bothering her in the middle of the day at her home.</p><p>“Sorry. I was looking for Camille? Camille Marquet. Or Camille Edwards, probably. This is the last address I could find for her.”</p><p>“Camille?” Clarke asks, squinting at the man. “Who’s asking?”</p><p>“Sorry,” he says again, sticking out his hand. “Bellamy Blake.”</p><p>She shakes it warily.</p><p>“Camille died two years ago, so if this is some IRS thing—”</p><p>“It’s not,” he says quickly. He looks down at his hands. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize she’d already passed. I was hoping I wasn’t too late. Are you her…?”</p><p>“Granddaughter. Clarke Griffin,” she supplies. “Too late for what?”</p><p>He lets out a little laugh, but the sound is anything but amused. “It’s sort of a long story.”</p><p>Clarke shouldn’t let a strange man into her house when it’s just her and Stella home.</p><p>She lets the strange man into her house.</p><p>He follows behind her carefully, toeing his shoes off in the entryway before joining her in the kitchen. Without asking, she starts pouring two coffees. </p><p>“So what did you want with my grandma?”</p><p>He pulls out an old envelope, dirtied by time and covered in more ink stamps then she knows how to interpret.</p><p>“I received a letter from her three days ago.”</p><p>She blinks at him. “You… what? Did you miss the part where I said she’s dead? Because we definitely cremated her, so I don’t think she’s out there making penpals.”</p><p>He takes a sip of his still-black coffee, though he makes a face at the taste. She would’ve gotten him some sugar if he hadn’t dropped the bomb that her grandmother is somehow sending messages sans-ouija board.</p><p>He slides the envelope closer to her. When she looks down at it, she can see her grandmother’s careful cursive hidden amongst all the stamps, the letters faded but undeniably hers. </p><p>For a second, Clarke is worried she might cry at the sight of it.</p><p><em> “Mr. Efren Blake. </em>So you received it, but it wasn’t for you.”</p><p>“No. Efren was my grandfather. He died a long time before I was born. But this letter was sent in 1955, and it arrived three days ago.”</p><p>She hums. “I guess that is odd. Was it anything important?”</p><p>He nods his head, giving her permission to pull out whatever’s inside the envelope. She does so gingerly, knowing the paper is probably delicate after so long.</p><p>When she finally sees it, she can’t help but laugh.</p><p>“A Christmas card? That’s it? What was so exciting about an old Christmas card that you felt the need to track down my grandmother to tell her about it?”</p><p>“Open it.”</p><p>When she flips it open, there is a loose sheet of paper folded in thirds inside. She holds on to it while she reads the message written in the card itself.</p><p><em> “Dear Cynthia,” </em> she reads aloud. <em> “Wishing the merriest of Christmases to you and the whole family. May 1956 be just as happy as this year has been. Love, Camille Marquet.” </em></p><p>She raises her eyebrow again, confused by the message. If it was odd to go searching for a woman sixty years after her Christmas card was finally delivered, it was downright crazy to do so when the letter was sent to the wrong person by mistake.</p><p>“Mislabeled envelope?”</p><p>“Not quite. Read the other paper.”</p><p>She opens it up. Time has made itself known in the worn folds, the writing having rubbed away more in those areas especially.</p><p>
  <em> Mon bel ami, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Please don’t be angry with me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> My father knows that we’ve been writing to each other and meeting in secret on Saturdays. He was so very angry at the news, storming about the house in a fit of rage. I don’t know what to do or how to make him see reason. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He says he wants me to marry Paul from next door. I know I’ve mentioned my neighbors to you before — Paul’s father is very close to mine. If my father and Mr. Edwards tell Paul to propose to me, I know he will do it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> My father will make me accept. I won’t have a choice. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I wish that I could run away now to be with you, but I know neither of us are prepared financially for a life together. If I thought we could do it, I would’ve packed my bags instead of writing this letter. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He will check all of my correspondence to make sure that I don’t write to you, so I’m hiding this in a Christmas card addressed to someone else. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Please don’t forget me, E. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember. I will love you for as long as I’m able, even if I have to do it as Mrs. Camille Edwards.  </em>
</p><p><em> Please meet me by the Kauffman’s clock in town on Sunday at noon. I want <strike>to </strike> </em> <strike> <em> tell you I love you </em> </strike> <em> to say goodbye. </em></p><p>
  <strike> <em> I’m afraid that seeing you will only make me more certain that we should run away together, but I can’t bring myself not to be with you one final time. </em> </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike> <em> Still… If you ask me to leave with you and never look back, I’ll say yes. </em> </strike>
</p><p>
  <em> Yours forever, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> CMB </em>
</p><p>Clarke doesn’t even know where to start unpacking this information.</p><p>“Mon bel ami?” She asks, looking at the opening again.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m not sure either. Code, maybe? So she didn’t have to say his name? Probably not that useful in this letter since it would’ve been obvious who the recipient was if your great-grandfather had found it, but maybe it was something they’d been doing for a long time. Only putting Efren on the envelope, and only when she was already at the post office.”</p><p>“Maybe,” she says, running her fingertips over her grandmother’s words. It’s been a while since she’s seen this writing. It was always on grocery lists and little notes around the house growing up, especially in the summers when she’d spent the majority of her time with her grandmother while her parents worked. “Bel ami. Bellamy. That can’t be a coincidence, right?”</p><p>“Like I said, my grandfather was dead before I was born, but maybe it was something my dad knew about.”</p><p>“Do you know why it was such an issue that they associate with each other?”</p><p>“That’s what I was hoping to ask Camille, among other things. But if I had to guess…” He gestures at himself. “I’m half Filipino on my father’s side. Efren was my paternal grandfather. I’m sure you can do the math.”</p><p>She grimaces. “Yeah, that makes sense. I didn’t know my great-grandfather, but apparently even though he and his family, including my grandma, emigrated from France during the war, he was the kind of hypocrite who hated other immigrants.”</p><p>He huffs out a little laugh, like he’s more than familiar with that brand of racism.</p><p>“CMB?” She asks, changing the subject.</p><p>“I’m assuming that’s Camille Marquet Blake,” he says easily, like it’s not slightly world-shattering that Clarke’s unassuming grandmother had once been so in love with someone that she’d signed her letters with his last initial.</p><p>He takes another drink of his coffee. “I’m guessing, since this letter only just arrived, that they didn’t meet on Sunday at the clock. She thought he didn’t care enough to risk it all, and he thought she froze him out one day and got married to someone else.”</p><p>“And you wanted to let her know what happened? To say that she didn’t actually get stood up that day?”</p><p>He nods his head. “That, and I wanted to ask her some questions. Efren died pretty young, and then my own father died when I was a baby. I don’t really know anything about that side of my family, and they didn’t save much. I guess I just wanted to talk to her, see what she could tell me.” He shrugs, like he can physically remove the disappointment of this trip if he tries hard enough. “But I guess it’ll have to remain a mystery.”</p><p>Clarke is about to say something placating when Stella lets out a cry from her room down the hall.</p><p>“Shit. Listen, I need to go deal with that. But I still have some of my grandma’s stuff — boxes that I’ve never had time to go through. Maybe we could see if there’s anything in there. I can’t promise anything will come of it, but it’s worth a shot.”</p><p>He perks up instantly, a light going on behind his eyes. “Really?”</p><p>Stella keeps crying, so she grabs a sharpie off the counter. Without thinking about it too much, she scrawls her phone number on a piece of paper before sliding it over to him alongside the letter.</p><p>“Call in advance. Maybe we can meet at a Starbucks or something next time,” she says, thinking about how stupid it was to let a stranger into her house in the first place.</p><p>He nods, looking suddenly sheepish. The crying baby that he clearly hadn’t accounted for probably made him feel a little bit worse about coming into a random woman’s house unannounced. </p><p>“I will. Thank you, Clarke. I hope you have a nice day.”</p><p>When she goes to feed Stella after Bellamy’s car has disappeared around the corner, she can’t help but think about her grandmother and the man she’d left behind.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>[September]</b>
</p><p>Bellamy Blake had texted her only an hour after leaving her house that first day, but it was only so she’d have his number as well. Once it was programmed into her contacts, she hadn’t had much of a reason to text him again.</p><p>Which was more than fine. Since Finn had ditched her at four months pregnant, telling her not to bother putting him on the birth certificate, she’s been busy enough trying to keep up with her design work while raising a child alone.</p><p>Nothing much comes of the Camille and Efren romance until she’d needed to go into the attic to find something for Stella. While she’d been up there, she stumbled upon one of her grandmother’s diaries, the cover showing an embossed <em> 1952. </em></p><p>She’d found it three days ago, and though she’d only managed to skim through parts of it, she knows now that it’s probably time to contact Bellamy.</p><p>She texts him, biting her nail as the message sends. Stella plays on her mat on the ground, pushing differently shaped blocks through their corresponding holes. When she finishes, she gives her mother a look, as though she knows just how worried Clarke is and finds the whole thing slightly pathetic.</p><p>It’s just that, well… It’s not like she <em> knows </em> Bellamy. They’d met once under weird circumstances and then didn’t speak again for weeks. Their connection is tenuous at best, and now she’s going to reach out and start the whole thing up again. What if he’s a creep and just hides it well? What if…?</p><p>She cuts off that line of thinking as the three dots appear at the bottom of the thread. Within fifteen seconds, Bellamy responds with excitement, asking if she’s free to meet <em> at a Starbucks </em> the following day.</p><p>She sends him a thumbs up emoji and the address for her nearest shop.</p><p>Looking over again at Stella’s wide eyed stare, she says, “Your mommy is crazy.”</p><p>Stella tries to shove her whole fist in her drool-covered mouth, which Clarke is sure is her way of agreeing.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“So I hope you didn’t get your expectations up too high, because I didn’t bring much today. Just a 1952 diary.”</p><p>“No, that’s great. Did she mention him at all?”</p><p>She opens the book, spinning it to face him. “I haven’t read much yet. But it seems like they met just after New Years, so he’s probably in a decent amount if they kept in contact.”</p><p>He glances down at the first entry.</p><p>
  <em> 2 janvier 1952 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nothing exciting from yesterday. Papa’s work party for the New Year was very dull. Christmas break has been boring this year. Luckily we’re back in classes tomorrow — I already have so much to tell Claire. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> More news from today. Met a very nice man in the park while I was going on a walk to get out. The pathway was slick from the frost, and when I slid, he was quick to catch me so I wouldn’t destroy my dress. Papa would’ve killed me if I’d ruined it since it’s brand new! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Efren and I spoke for the rest of our walk. He said it wasn’t out of his way to escort me back so he could be sure I wouldn’t slip again, but I’m certain he was originally going in the opposite direction! I asked if I might be able to see him again, which Claire would probably say is too forward, but he didn’t seem to mind. He said he would be in the park this coming weekend if I’d like to meet. </em>
</p><p>The entry cuts off there. It’s a recounting of a simple winter day, and a first meeting with someone who she couldn’t have known at the time would be so important to her.</p><p>Clarke watches Bellamy’s face as he finishes reading. His finger runs along the final line on the page, like he can feel both the hope and the omen hanging above the innocent words of a young girl.</p><p>“How old was she here?” </p><p>“Um,” she counts in her head. “Seventeen maybe? She and her parents moved to America when she was around six or so, and that was in 1940, just before the Nazis invaded France. I’m not even sure how they managed to leave mid-war. She never really spoke of those days.”</p><p>With Stella busy chewing on a teething ring, Clarke leans over to read the next entry alongside him.</p><p>They only make it through February before they realize they’ve let their drinks go cold. Bellamy stands up to order them new coffees while Clarke changes Stella’s diaper.</p><p>When she gets back to the table, he pushes another latte her direction.</p><p>“Do you want to keep going?” She asks, gesturing to the book.</p><p>“Is this my only chance to see it?”</p><p>“No, I’m sure we can work something out.” </p><p>He smiles at her from behind his coffee cup, and she smiles back. It surprises her a little how genuine it is.</p><p>“Then I think we can be done for the day. I realized it’s probably weird to be working together on a project about our grandparents while knowing absolutely nothing about each other. So, Clarke Griffin, what’s your story?”</p><p>She laughs at the question, bouncing Stella on her leg. He listens intently as she tells him about growing up as the daughter of a doctor and an engineer who had very little time away from work. She talks about her grandma, who she’d nicknamed <em> Grammy Cammy </em> as a young child, which — to everyone’s misfortune — was a name that stuck. When her grandmother started needing more help around the house a few years back, Clarke had moved in with her, and when she’d passed, she made sure to leave the property to her granddaughter.</p><p>Clarke doesn’t get much into Stella, only mentioning that she’s a single mother who works from home as a graphic designer. Stella stares at Bellamy the whole time, her blue eyes wide as she takes him in.</p><p>Bellamy takes it in stride, sometimes playing peek-a-boo while Clarke talks, although he’s careful to let her know that he’s still listening. Stella laughs every time he disappears, object impermanence being the funniest thing to her at the moment.</p><p>Eventually, Clarke runs out of polite conversation about herself and gestures for him to start. He tells her about his family — just his mother and a sister called Octavia. His father, as he’d said previously, died when he was a baby, and he had no real connection to his Filipino heritage, which is why he’d been so keen to meet her grandmother in the hopes of learning more.</p><p>“It’s a bit dramatic to say that I’m trying to <em> find myself </em> or something like that,” he laughs. “But I grew up knowing that there was something different about me, and I had no way to understand that difference because my mom and sister are both white. It just seemed nice to learn more about my family if I could. I didn’t even know my grandfather’s name before that letter arrived.”</p><p>“Then I’m glad that the Christmas card ended up on your doorstep after all this time. I hope we can find out more for you.”</p><p>He smiles, and Stella bangs her tiny fist on the table in agreement.</p><p>“I should let you two get home. I didn’t expect we’d stay out for this long. Thanks for meeting with me, Clarke. This has been really nice.”</p><p>“Of course. I’ll text you when I have some time free to meet again.”</p><p>They exit the shop, parting ways in the parking lot while they each wear a little grin.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Clarke tries to go through more of the attic in the next week, but the honest truth is that her grandmother, whose good name she would never besmirch, was a hoarder.</p><p>She’d kept loads of things throughout her long life, and while her home was always immaculately clean and ready for a visit from the Pope, the attic was a zone unto itself. It simply didn’t follow the same rulebook.</p><p>There are boxes and boxes of <em> stuff, </em> with very little indication of how any of it is meant to be sorted. Some days, Clarke sets up Stella’s bouncy chair in a corner while she tries to excavate the space, but it’s an overwhelming task, especially around her actual work and Stella’s needs. </p><p>After a week passes in which she has achieved little on Battlefront Camille, she finally decides it’s time to call in reinforcements. </p><p>“Bellamy,” she says as he answers the phone. “Sorry to bother you on a Saturday.”</p><p>He laughs, as though the idea that she could be interrupting him is in itself funny. “Don’t worry about it, Clarke. What’s up?”</p><p>“I’ve realized that the attic is going to be a bigger hurdle than I’d thought. My grandma kept basically everything she’s ever owned. Newspapers, schoolwork, things I made her as a kid, things <em> my mom </em> made her as a kid. It’s a minimalist’s nightmare. She has probably two dozen diaries spread through various boxes seemingly at random. It’s going to be a big undertaking to piece together what happened in the years she knew Efren.”</p><p>“Well I don’t want you to have to go through all that effort just for me. I understand if it’s not a project you can take on.”</p><p>“No, I— I wasn’t trying to tell you that I’m stopping. I wanted to ask if you’d like to help.” Then, second guessing if this is a reasonable request, she starts rambling. “If you can’t or don’t want to, I totally get it. It’s honestly going to be a lot of work and probably really boring, but I can still probably get through it by myself eventu—”</p><p>“Clarke,” he says warmly. “I’d love to help. Her diaries are the closest I’ll ever get to answers. Plus, I don’t mind spending more time with you and Stella. You’ve both been great.”</p><p>And it’s not like Clarke <em> doesn’t </em>have friends. There’s Raven, though she’s often kept busy with fucking NASA, and Murphy, though he pops up seemingly at random before slinking off again with Emori to do who knows what…</p><p>And there’s Jasper, obviously, along with Harper and Monty. Only, Jasper has been tied up recently with the record store, and Harper and Monty are deep in their wedding planning stress, trying to make three hundred different people happy somehow.</p><p>So Clarke has friends, but they’re all living their own lives, too. It’s not like in college, where everyone just appeared in someone’s dorm to share shitty beer and pizza. Now if plans aren’t made a week out, there’s a good chance someone won’t be able to make it. Even then, someone is always cancelling. It’s just a part of adulthood, she guesses. It’s not like having Stella hasn’t radically shifted her own priorities. </p><p>But Bellamy’s <em> nice, </em> and it’s very explicitly in his interest to spend time with her as they try to find answers. Unlike her other friends, he will prioritize this because the task is something he cares about.</p><p>Even though it’s not about her, it’s still nice to have someone in her life who is excited about something they’re going to do together. Suddenly the chaos of the attic doesn’t feel like a burden — instead, it’s a mystery, a challenge.</p><p>Something they both want to solve together.</p><p>“I’m glad,” she says finally, a smile on her face. “But I should warn you that it’s a big undertaking.”</p><p>“I’m a hard worker.”</p><p>“When are you free to start?”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Even with the warning she’d given him, Bellamy seems alarmed by just how much there is to get through, though his optimism never wavers. He figures that the more Camille saved, the more there potentially is for them to uncover about his grandfather.</p><p>They work through the morning, but they spend most of their time organizing. Anything they find that seems useful gets put to one side so they can analyze it more closely later.</p><p>Stella gets fussy around noon, and Bellamy entertains her for a while before they decide to quit for lunch. Clarke prepares a bottle while Bellamy puts sandwiches together for them.</p><p>“Next time, I’ll bring stuff to cook lunch for you.”</p><p>“You <em> cook?” </em> She asks, eyes wide. She’s always been a disaster chef, subsisting mainly off of freezer meals and take out. Now, with a full-time job and a kid, she finds more than ever that eating is more of an annoying maintenance task than something that she enjoys.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says easily. “You don’t?”</p><p>The bark of laughter she lets out is probably answer enough, but she calms enough to add on a polite, “No, not really.”</p><p>He opens her freezer, eyes wide at all of the boxed meals in there.</p><p>“Your French grandmother wasn’t appalled by this?”</p><p>“Oh, she was, believe me. She adored food, and anything in the freezer aisle was a personal affront to her. Having said that, I think she also hated cooking. It was the expectation that a good wife always had dinner on the table for her husband, and it wore on her. And then my mom was never much into it, always too busy at the hospital. I never bothered to learn because my grandma thought it was fine in my generation if a woman didn’t prioritize it like she’d had to. Of course, now I can’t cook for shit, so I guess the patriarchy got it’s revenge.”</p><p>He smiles at her, passing her a plate with a sandwich on it. “Well, now I know that I can put my cooking skills to use for the needy.”</p><p>She snorts into her lunch.</p><p>He tells her more about himself finally — things about his students in his 10th grade world history classes and stories from his childhood. His voice is deep and even, and he knows the exact right way to tell a story. His jokes are well-timed and he always knows how to garner her interest right from the beginning.</p><p>He comes back the next weekend — Saturday <em> and </em> Sunday. He cooks a stir fry for them to eat at lunch, and on Sunday she orders them a pizza for dinner, apologizing for having kept him later into the day than she’d intended to.</p><p>His eyes are warm as he tells her it’s okay. Stella’s chunky baby legs rest on either side of one of his thighs, and he holds her hands in his as he bounces her up and down gently. Stella giggles joyfully at the motion. Though she can’t yet say actual words, she’ll sometimes babble to him animatedly, and he always sits and listens, nodding along as though she’s delivering a Nobel prize acceptance speech.</p><p>Part of her feels like it’s wrong to care about Bellamy so much so quickly. It seems like one of those unspoken laws that becoming a mother was supposed to hinder her own friendships for the next eighteen years, even if people speak to the contrary. Still, Bellamy is easy to be around. He has a natural affinity with children and doesn’t mind laughing at Clarke’s bad jokes. Already in two weekends they’ve spent hours alone together in her dusty attic, and it never feels awkward. The conversation is good and the silences are comfortable.</p><p>She lays her cheek against the back of the couch, watching him entertain her daughter. She can’t help but wonder if it can really be this simple.</p><p>When he leaves that night, he pulls her in for a quick hug.</p><p>She’s not going to think about it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>[October]</b>
</p><p>Clarke and Bellamy are sorting through more of Camille’s junk when she finds an envelope.</p><p>The outside is non-descript — just Camille’s name and the address to her childhood home. There is no return address.</p><p>Clarke opens it, scanning it over quickly, and she’s calling Bellamy over before she can stop herself.</p><p>“It’s a letter from your grandfather,” she says as he hastily moves to settle down beside her on the floor.</p><p>“Really?” </p><p>His voice is eager, and it makes her smile.</p><p>“Really. Read it if you like. I didn’t finish it yet.”</p><p>
  <em> April 18th, 1952 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> C, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sometimes I don’t think I tell you enough how glad I am to have met you.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I know I complain to you a lot, and I know it probably isn’t fair. I only hope that being your friend and listening to your complaints in return is enough to make up for all that I ask of you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But even though our situations aren’t identical, I still know that there are things about being here that you understand. </em>
</p><p><em> It’s just </em> <b> <em>so difficult </em> </b> <em> sometimes, C. We’ve lived here for six years, and I’m not sure that I’ll ever get used to America. Everyone said that it would be better here, but I think they were lying. </em></p><p>
  <em> FDR told us that the Filipino troops who helped fight against the Japanese would be given benefits, but even all these years after my father did his duty, we’ve still seen nothing. You can’t tell anyone this, but we aren't even here legally. They refuse to nationalize the veterans who served alongside them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And everything here is so much harder. We’re constantly reminded that we’re something different. Not American. Not white. Not Protestant. Not whatever they consider to be the American dream. I know it’s not exactly the same for you, but in some small way I’m sure you can commiserate. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It’ll probably always be like this. I’m not sure what else there ever could be for me here. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> At least I have you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sorry this is so depressing. I just needed to rant. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yours, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> TBA </em>
</p><p>Bellamy doesn’t speak for a long time after finishing the letter.</p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “This is really weird.”</p><p>Admittedly, that’s not the reaction she’d been expecting.</p><p>Gut-wrenching, sure. Anger-inducing, obviously. So frustrating it makes you want to dig up long-dead racist presidents to give them a piece of your mind, <em> clearly. </em></p><p>“Weird?”</p><p>“There’s just… a lot to process all at once. The letter itself is just complete shit, and I don’t even know how to start into all that. But the other part of me just keeps thinking… well, I’ve never seen my grandfather’s writing before.”</p><p>His fingers trace carefully over the words. The existence of this letter must be priceless to him, no matter the content. </p><p>“I didn’t even know his name before this all started, and now I have this letter, you know? And it’s depressing as fuck, but it’s his personality. It’s his experiences. And I guess that just feels really weird.”</p><p>She puts her hand on his forearm carefully before asking, “What makes it feel weird to you?”</p><p>“I just… This isn’t mourning. I didn’t know him. It’s not like you with your grandma; I can’t miss someone I never really knew was gone. Except now I <em> do </em> know. I know that there was someone who could’ve been in my life if things were different, but they aren’t. It’s not mourning him… just— Just the shadow of him. What might’ve been. What <em> I </em> might’ve been if he hadn’t died.”</p><p>She doesn’t have anything to say to that, so she squeezes his arm a little tighter to let him know she’s here. It’s a strange and difficult thing to miss something in the abstract. He deserves this time to figure out how to do it.</p><p>“How did you know?” He asks finally after a lengthy pause. “That this was his. You said you didn’t read it all.”</p><p>She smiles. “TBA, at the bottom. <em> Ton bel ami. </em> He was writing back to her, so it’s signed <em> your beautiful friend.” </em></p><p>She stands up carefully from the floor, moving to where they’ve been piling Camille’s diaries. The 1952 book — which they’ve realized is actually just <em> half </em> of 1952, since her grandmother was an unusually prolific diarist — sits on top.</p><p>She returns to her place next to him, and he leans his head on her shoulder. As she flips through the pages with one hand, the other runs up and down his back.</p><p>She finds the diary entry for <em> 21 avril 1952, </em> three days after Efren’s letter had been posted.</p><p><em> “I wish I could explain to MBA exactly how special he is,” </em> Clarke reads aloud. <em> “Not just to me — as a person, as my friend — but to everyone. To the world. He is so good, and so deserving of the good things that the universe never seems to grant him…” </em></p><p>The passage goes on for several pages as Camille lists out in detail all the things that she wishes she could say to Efren to show him how much he matters. She wants to tell him how she adores him, but is too afraid that it’s too soon, that he doesn’t feel the same.</p><p>The letter Camille had written back was presumably lost to time, having been in Efren’s care after the split. Even without it, Clarke is sure she’d sent back a slightly more muted, platonic version of this exact diary entry to him.</p><p>She wonders if that’s how they’d fallen in love.</p><p>She keeps reading the passage out — Camille’s words growing increasingly vehement — as she traces unseen patterns on Bellamy’s back, his head still on her shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>[November]</b>
</p><p>Things they learn about their grandparents over many days of looking:</p><ul>
<li>Efren moved to America in 1946 with his parents and twin sister</li>
<li>Camille wrote in her diary in English because her dad didn’t read the language as well as he spoke it, thus making it easier to keep her thoughts private</li>
<li>Efren’s family name wasn’t originally Blake. It was altered when they’d come into the country to sound more American (there is no information on the original family name)</li>
<li>Camille wanted to try to become a teacher or a secretary to save up so she could run off with Efren, but her father kept her from such pursuits, and she couldn’t explain to him why it was so important</li>
<li>Efren had studied English since he was a child in Manila, and though he had moved to America at a much older age than Camille had, she had a more noticeable accent than he did. It was subtle, having spent most of her life in the states, but the accent never fully went away. He loved to tease her, but he also reminded her that he loved it sincerely too</li>
<li>They started dating in secret towards the end of 1952, about ten months after meeting. Efren had been too nervous to make a move, so Camille pulled him down one day behind a tree in the park so she could plant a kiss on him</li>
<li>Camille started signing her letters CMB — Camille Marquet Blake — in 1953, two full years before they were finally separated at Christmas by a different marriage</li>
<li>Efren always signed his TBA</li>
<li>Camille’s father made sure she and Paul were married quickly. It was so rushed that people spread rumors that she was already <em>in the family way </em>(pregnant). Of course, no baby followed the wedding. She wouldn’t have her daughter Abby until a decade into their marriage</li>
<li>In a diary entry from 1960, Camille wrote that Efren had indeed married two years after their separation. His wife was from Quezon City in the Philippines and, as far as Camille was aware, they seemed happy together. This was all learned secondhand.</li>
<li>Despite everything Clarke had thought she’d known about her grandparents, Camille’s diary makes it clear that she was deeply, <em>deeply </em>unhappy being married to Paul</li>
</ul><p>It takes hundreds of hours between the two of them to locate all of Efren’s scattered letters and read them alongside Camille’s diaries. They spend weekends poring over their discoveries, trying to keep a log of all the information they uncover, no matter how seemingly inconsequential. Each fact is accompanied by the letter or diary entry they’d found it in so they can reference back to it if necessary.</p><p>It’s a whole undertaking, and at times Bellamy jokes that it’s like writing his dissertation all over again.</p><p>She’s certain there are still missing letters though. The ones they found from Efren are, above all else, quite innocent. Though it would be clear to someone reading them that the pair were close, it would be almost impossible to tell they were dating from his words.</p><p>It might just be that he was exceptionally careful, but there are big gaps between letters based on Efren’s dates at the top that make Clarke think that the romantic letters might’ve been destroyed or hidden.</p><p>The closest they get to a true love letter is when Efren called Camille <em> “my darling, my dove” </em>in an otherwise friendly missive.</p><p>But they’ve dug through most of the attic by now, so it’s fair to reason that anything that hasn’t materialized by this point is probably gone for good.</p><p>Bellamy, who truly manages to be the perfect human without even trying, helps her try to reorganize the chaos they’ve created. While Clarke had tried to clean and get rid of unnecessary clutter as they’d worked, the room itself is still crowded with stuff. They’d rearranged the space as required to check everywhere, but it’s still slightly disastrous.</p><p>“You really don’t have to stay and help, Bellamy. I can figure this out another day.”</p><p>“Where else do I have to be on a Saturday night?”</p><p>She can’t help but wonder if he doesn’t want to leave because neither of them know exactly what happens next.</p><p>She considers Bellamy a friend — a <em> good </em> friend, like the kind that would help her move house without complaining or babysit at the last minute, no questions asked.</p><p>But this had all started in a quest for answers, and though she hopes to stay friends with him even though they seem to have reached the end, it’ll be different without the imperative to constantly spend time together.</p><p>Not that she’d mind if he just kept coming over every weekend. They don’t have to restrict themselves to the attic and the kitchen every time they’re together. She has a couch and Netflix — there are alternatives.</p><p>But for today, if he wants to help her shuffle around a few heavy pieces of furniture and a million boxes into a different shape in the attic, she’s not going to force him away.</p><p>Suddenly they hear Stella’s cries through the baby monitor.</p><p>Clarke sighs, trying to push herself up from where she’s squatting on the ground over a box, but Bellamy just rests a hand on her shoulder to keep her in place.</p><p>“Don’t worry — I’ve got it.”</p><p>Before she can say anything else, he’s already through the attic door and following the sounds of her daughter’s cries.</p><p>For a second, she thinks about how nice it is that Bellamy is so comfortable around them. He’s spoken often about what it was like to raise Octavia, and while he’d wanted some time away from kids after she’d grown up, he’s in a place in his life where he appreciates the company of babies again. He never shies away from the grossest diapers. He’s better than she is sometimes when Stella starts screaming. And he loves keeping her entertained when Clarke is tied up with something else, listening to her baby babble and the occasional <em> no </em> that she’s so fond of these days.</p><p>In short, Stella might actually like Bellamy more than her own mother, and Clarke would be hard-pressed to blame her. Liking Bellamy is a sign of good taste.</p><p>But she only thinks of all of this for a second, because when she shifts again to stand, the floor makes an odd sound. </p><p>She shifts back and forth a few times, testing the sound. Attics are just like this sometimes, and often when she hears a weird noise in her house she ignores it and hopes the problem will go away on its own.</p><p>But the sound happens again and again as she moves. She takes a quick step to the side, looking down at the floorboards to see that one is loose.</p><p>It could be nothing…</p><p>But when she pulls that little section of the flooring up, it’s not nothing at all. There, just under the floor, is a stack of letters tied together with string, along with a man’s jacket and a box of trinkets.</p><p>She pulls out the letters with an awed sort of reverence, wondering if this is really what she’s been looking for this whole time.</p><p>She should wait for Bellamy.</p><p>But her fingers can’t help but open the first envelope, pulling out the weathered paper carefully.</p><p>
  <em> March 28th, 1954 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> C, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It’s been so long since I’ve seen you that I can hardly bear the thought that we won’t be together again until after Easter.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I know it’s for the best — we have to be more careful now that your father is frequently at home. Still, I’m afraid you’ve made me terribly dependent. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The truth is that yours is the only hand I want to walk through life holding. You are my solace in the storm; the person who makes me believe that there can always be good again. I am endlessly lucky to know you, to love you, to worship you.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I don’t want to have to hide away with you forever. I dream of standing proudly beside you for every beautiful thing you achieve in this world. I know there will be so many such moments. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Every day that we spend apart, I hope you know how much I adore you — and how desperately I long to be with you again. You are all my joy in the world. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m sure there was a life before you. Only in my worst nightmares is there a life after you. Both are pale, depressing versions of what they should be — only half-lives spent in the dark. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You are the light, darling. I’m sure you have been this entire time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I love you, I love you, I love you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Until we can see each other again, know that my heart has been left in your care. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Endlessly yours, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> TBA </em>
</p><p>Clarke doesn’t even realize there are tears in her eyes until one nearly falls on the page. Hastily she wipes at her cheeks, wanting to be sure that nothing damages the letter further.</p><p>“Bellamy,” she tries to call, the word coming out weak and raspy.</p><p>She thinks of her grandmother receiving these letters. Her grandmother, the woman who loved reading fairytale romances and cried any time Titanic came on television. She’d always said that true, pure love was a rare thing worth waiting for.</p><p>As a child, Clarke had thought she was talking about her love for Clarke’s granddad, but it’s clear now that whatever respect and companionship they’d found over the years was a sad imitation of the real thing.</p><p>She can hear Bellamy soothing Stella through the baby monitor, his soft cooing noises helping to quiet her cries. The sound makes her heart swell in her chest.</p><p>She grabs everything from the hole in the floor and makes a quick exit down the attic stairs. </p><p>When she gets to the doorway of Stella’s room, she sees Bellamy sitting in the rocking chair with her in his lap. Her daughter couldn’t look less sleepy if she tried, instead eagerly playing with Bellamy’s shirt and giggling.</p><p>It’s better than crying, at least. The snot under her nose is somehow the only evidence that she’d ever been crying in the first place.</p><p>“Sorry, I’ll get her back to sleep in a minute,” he says without looking away from Stella’s face.</p><p>“Bell. I found...”</p><p>She doesn’t even know how to start explaining the goldmine she’s found, but when he finally glances up at her, he seems to realize that what she’s holding is important.</p><p>“Holy shit. Where was all that?”</p><p>“Hidden under the floor. It must’ve been all the stuff she couldn’t bear to get rid of. She just… hid his memory under the floor where she wouldn’t have to be haunted by it anymore.”</p><p>Bellamy stands from the rocking chair and sits himself on the ground, still holding Stella. He gestures for Clarke to join him, and under the glow of Stella’s nightlight, they go through what’s been found.</p><p>Clarke offers to take Stella while Bellamy reads the letter she’s already seen, but he just shifts the baby so he can hold her against him with one hand while using the other to unfold the paper.</p><p>When he’s finished reading, his hand drops down heavily to his thigh.</p><p>“That was…”</p><p>She waits a few moments, but he doesn’t seem to have the end of the sentence.</p><p>“It’s beautiful,” she says honestly. “He was very talented.”</p><p>“It’s just so <em> sad.” </em></p><p>The corners of her lips lift up in a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. Their whole story really was a tragedy, and seeing the very genuine love that was lost between them only makes it harder to imagine.</p><p>“It is sad. But we don’t have to read them tonight if you don’t want to. And you don’t have to do it alone.”</p><p>He sets the letter down gently on the ground, using his now free hand to rub Stella’s back soothingly. For all that she’d been wide awake a moment ago, her head seems to be drooping more and more as she uses his shoulder for a pillow.</p><p>“I’m glad,” he says, his smile real this time. “What else did you find?”</p><p>They marvel over Efren’s jacket, a rare find for a family member long forgotten. Then, when they’re ready, they continue reading the letters together, just the three of them.</p><p>
  <em> May 11th, 1953 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ...Sometimes I’m afraid that one day you’ll be the only thing I ever think about. I want to shout out my love for you from the rooftops for all the universe to hear… </em>
</p><p>
  <em> September 21st, 1955 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ...Manila is the home of my childhood, the land that I think of when I remember the family of my birth. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You are the home of my future. The family we create together will be the center of my world, and I will protect it with a fierce devotion… </em>
</p><p>
  <em> November 1953, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ...I’m yours. Ceaselessly, endlessly, unchangingly yours… </em>
</p><p>The letters go on and on, not organized by date but seemingly by how often they’d been reread. Clarke and Bellamy stay up late reading through them all, Stella sleeping soundly beside them as they whisper romantic passages aloud to each other in the dark.</p><p> </p><p>Clarke doesn’t usually spend Thanksgiving with her mother, but this year Abby and Marcus had been gifted a cruise over the holidays. To make up for missing her granddaughter’s first Christmas, Abby had decided to make a bigger deal out of Thanksgiving than any of them normally would.</p><p>The day itself isn’t anything extraordinary — they go over early to her mother’s to watch the parade, trying to entertain a ten month old with colorful floats and happy chatter.</p><p>They sit down to dinner in the early afternoon, and seeing as it’s only the four of them, they keep the spread reasonable. Clarke’s selfishly glad that Abby hadn’t turned this into some extravagant event for every surgeon she knows. It’s nice to have time with only her and Marcus. </p><p>She considers mentioning the Camille-Efren love story to her mother, but it seems like a topic that might require a little more forethought. Maybe Abby knows more than Clarke thinks she does, but it still seems like a pretty big deal to drop the <em> your parents tolerated each other because their marriage was just a way to keep your mom from her real love </em>bomb. There’s gonna need to be some alcohol involved at least, and Clarke never drinks around Stella.</p><p>So instead they engage in nice, easy dinner conversation about the hospital. Clarke fills them in on Stella Milestones, something she’s realized everyone enjoys hearing about. She even mentions Bellamy a few times, though in a roundabout sort of way.</p><p>The highlight of their day, though, is when Stella claps her hands together a few times before saying “Mama!” with a sweet smile.</p><p>They all freak out, excited that she’s graduated to a new — and far more exciting — word. The rest of the afternoon is spent trying to get Stella to repeat the trick, which, like the little diva she is, she only does when it pleases her.</p><p>Clarke really couldn’t be happier this year.</p><p>When they get home later that evening, Clarke calls Bellamy without thinking. As it rings, she realizes how rude this might be — he’d mentioned spending the day with his sister, and she has no idea what time they eat. Sure, it’s pretty late in the day by now, but all families do holidays differently, and she doesn’t want to interrupt—</p><p>Then Bellamy answers the phone, and the calm greeting he gives her settles the moment of panic.</p><p>“Hey, Clarke! Happy Thanksgiving.”</p><p>She smiles. They’d texted each other this morning, but it’s nice to hear it properly. </p><p>“Happy Thanksgiving. You’ll never guess what happened today.”</p><p>In her most <em> proud mom </em> voice, she tells him about Stella’s first time calling her mama. As she’d predicted, Bellamy is thrilled to hear about it, only disappointed that he’d missed it in the first place. He makes her try to get Stella to say it for him over the phone, but her sweet baby has grown too cranky so late in the day, so they give up after a few minutes.</p><p>Bellamy tells her about his dinner with Octavia and her boyfriend — now <em> fiance </em> — Lincoln. Apparently he’d proposed two weeks prior and they’d decided to keep it a secret until Thanksgiving. Bellamy complains that she only lives twenty minutes away and they could’ve gotten together at any time to tell him, but it’s more a teasing sort of annoyance. She can tell that he’s really happy for his sister.</p><p>“So it sounds like we both had really great holidays.”</p><p>She can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Yeah, I guess we did. The only thing that would’ve made it better would be seeing you and Stella.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>[December]</b>
</p><p>Though the saga of Camille and Efren mostly comes to an end with the discovery of the hidden letters, Clarke and Bellamy don’t stop hanging out.</p><p>When Clarke mentions to Bellamy that she loves decorating the house for Christmas as early as possible, he makes it a priority to be over for the whole of the first weekend in December so they can deck out the space. There’s a tree in the corner, paper snowflakes on the mantle, and garland on every bannister they can find. They make wreaths for their doors, and Bellamy even helps her to put up some lights on the outside of the house, though neither of them are ready to attempt the elaborate displays that some people do.</p><p><em> Maybe next year, </em> he says as an afterthought.</p><p>The fact that he sees them decorating together again next year makes her feel unexpectedly warm in the wintery air as he works.</p><p>He comes over again the next weekend, playing in the recent snowfall with Clarke and Stella. Stella, who they’ve dressed in the warmest baby snowsuit and mittens that Clarke could find, sits in the snow and tries to chuck little handfuls at Bellamy, who just laughs and encourages her on.</p><p>When they grow too cold to stay out any longer, they enjoy hot chocolate in the kitchen while Stella has her bottle. Clarke mentions, in an idle sort of way while they’re chatting, that her mom will be away for Christmas this year, and Bellamy is quick to invite her over to celebrate with him.</p><p>“Won’t you be with Octavia again?” She asks, eyebrows raised. “I don’t want to intrude on a family holiday.”</p><p>“It’s not intruding if I invite you. And anyway, Octavia wants to meet you.”</p><p>She eventually accepts the invitation, but not before triple checking to make sure it’s okay that an eleven month old crashes their Christmas and grilling him on the protocol for buying Octavia and Lincoln a gift.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>For much of their friendship, Bellamy has restricted his visiting days to the weekends so he can keep up with his grading and lesson plans during the week, but in the leadup to Christmas he stops by almost every day. He says teachers don’t bother to really teach in the last days before winter break, so there isn’t a lot to grade in the meantime.</p><p>She introduces him to some truly heinous Hallmark holiday movies, and they attempt to bake and assemble a gingerbread house that has even Stella looking at it with trepidation. </p><p>It’s the most fun she can remember having in December in many years. The magic of the holidays was largely lost when her father and grandmother died a few years apart. Now, with a daughter of her own to spoil and Bellamy to make her laugh, she feels that joy welling up again. It feels like coming home.</p><p>On Christmas Eve, they take Stella to meet Santa at the mall. She almost has a meltdown on the poor man’s lap before Bellamy and Clarke start miming to her from behind the camera, trying to draw her attention back to them. In the end, though her face is a little red, the picture turns out adorable.</p><p>When the camera lady asks if <em> mom and dad </em> want to get into a second picture, Clarke blushes. Bellamy doesn’t seem bothered by it though, so she just shrugs and walks up with him to pose beside Santa.</p><p>She buys both photos, and she’s not even ashamed that the one with all three of them will go on her fridge for the rest of time.</p><p>They spend the rest of the day listening to a Christmas playlist and dancing around as they attempt to bake cookies. She knows that Stella has no idea what’s going on, but she still wants to do all the traditions. Milk and cookies for Santa, presents under the tree, the whole nine yards.</p><p>Bellamy twirls a laughing Stella around the kitchen to Mariah Carey while Clarke smiles, licking some frosting off her fingers as she watches. They’re her two favorite people in the world.</p><p>She and Bellamy stay up late after Stella is asleep to put her gifts together. It was a tradition in her family that her parents put her to bed and then sat up all night together wrapping her gifts. Supposedly it was because wrapping them in advance just led to getting tears in the paper before Christmas, but she was sure as she got older that her parents just enjoyed the tradition of staying up together to make something beautiful for her to wake up to.</p><p>Clarke has decided to use gift bags this year instead of wrapping the gifts, mainly because Stella loves tossing around tissue paper but doesn’t really understand tearing paper off gifts. As a result, it doesn’t take nearly as long to do as she’d thought, so after they’re done Bellamy puts on Elf and they sit together on the couch, her head on his shoulder.</p><p>“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, looking up at him in the dark of the room. For a moment, she’s reminded of one of Efren’s letters.</p><p>
  <em> You are the home of my future. The family we create together will be the center of my world. </em>
</p><p>She thinks of Stella, asleep upstairs in her crib after a day filled with entirely too much love. She thinks of the way that Bellamy cares for her daughter — selflessly and unconditionally, even though it’s above and beyond the call of friendship.</p><p>He smiles back at her, the blue glow from the tv lighting up his face. “I’m glad I’m here too. It’s my favorite Christmas yet.”</p><p>Something about <em> yet </em> makes her feel a rush of warmth. There can be more Christmases just like this.</p><p>They fall asleep together on the couch, and even with the stiffness in her bones as she wakes up, it’s still the happiest morning she could’ve imagined.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>After they’ve finished letting Stella make a mess of the living room with her new toys, Bellamy whips up some pancakes and Clarke gets her daughter dressed in a warm set of reindeer footies to wear for the day. Bellamy even insists on taking a few hundred pictures of mother and daughter’s first Christmas together.</p><p>Clarke makes sure he gets in a few, too, even though he seems bashful about it.</p><p>Then, once they’re all bundled up for the cold, they load presents in the car for O and Lincoln and get on the road. It’s only a twenty minute drive, but with the snow and the traffic it takes closer to forty. Still, the Christmas music is playing, Bellamy is laughing in the passenger seat, and Stella’s wide eyes are entranced by the scenes zipping past outside the window.</p><p>When they arrive at Octavia’s apartment, she welcomes her brother in with a smile and a hug. Clarke knows, as much as anyone really can know when they weren’t there to experience it, about how difficult their relationship sometimes is. Bellamy all but raised her for most of his life, and it blurred the lines between brother, friend, and parent. These days it’s healthier, at least so he says. She can’t help but be glad for him — Octavia is the last family he has left.</p><p>“So you’re Clarke,” she says when they’ve pulled back from their hug. Clarke gives her a smile. </p><p>“That’s me. And this is Stella. Thanks for letting us come over on Christmas. I don’t think your brother could handle the thought of us without a family for the holiday, even if it meant crashing yours.”</p><p>“Nah, it’s fine; we’re a small family anyway,” Octavia says with a toss of her high ponytail. “Come on in. Lincoln’s in the middle of a cooking meltdown, otherwise he would’ve come to greet you too.”</p><p>Bellamy unloads the car with their gifts and things Stella will need for the day before he stops in the kitchen to see if there’s anything he can do to help Lincoln. Apparently, in this family, it’s the men who do all the cooking while the women stare in confused amazement. </p><p>Clarke gives a quick greeting to Lincoln, not wanting to be too in the way during the cooking nightmare that seems to have erupted, but with Bellamy’s help they seem to get things under control. Even while watching carefully from the background for a few minutes, Clarke still can’t figure out what exactly was wrong in the first place.</p><p>Maybe her Christmas gift should’ve been cooking lessons.</p><p>“So you’re, like, Bellamy’s cousin or something?” Octavia asks her with a smirk.</p><p>Clarke coughs loudly, choking on air. “No! Oh my god, <em> no. </em>Is that what he told you?”</p><p>Octavia laughs. “He told us that he spends a lot of time with you doing something involving your grandparents. He talks about you a lot.”</p><p>“Our grandparents were in love, but that was the end of it. If they hadn’t split, neither of us would be here right now, so we actually couldn’t be <em> less </em> related.”</p><p>“You seemed almost offended at the notion.”</p><p>“I’m— uh, I—”</p><p>Octavia just smiles knowingly. “Don’t worry, I knew you weren’t cousins. Not with the way Bellamy is always going on about how <em> Clarke’s so funny </em> and <em> I can’t come over, I’m hanging out with Clarke and Stella </em> and on and on. I’m pretty sure he’s cancelled on me twice so he could watch Netflix on your couch.”</p><p>Clarke smiles at this information before she narrows her eyes. “So why’d you ask if you already knew we weren’t related?”</p><p>“Just wanted to see your response. You wouldn’t have been so bothered by the question if he was just a casual friend. It’s a little sister thing, you know. Gotta make sure you’re on the same page.”</p><p>“And we… are?” Clarke asks carefully.</p><p>“Seems like it to me. You should probably ask him that yourself though.”</p><p>Then Octavia starts ignoring her entirely in order to crawl around on the floor chasing Stella, who seems to think it’s the funniest thing on earth.</p><p>“You know,” she says from the ground, finally looking up at Clarke again once Stella seems to have run through her energy, “I wouldn’t mind being Auntie O.”</p><p>It’s a heavy-handed comment if ever there was one, but Clarke just looks towards the kitchen and smiles.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>After dinner has been first saved and then devoured, they exchange their own gifts. She gives Bellamy’s family small things based on his own recommendations, and they do the same for her as well, which was nice of them. She hadn’t expected anything because they’re hosting her, but they even have small gifts for Stella, who squeals and babbles out her incomprehensible thanks.</p><p>Once their part is over, Lincoln and Octavia leave the apartment entirely to take a Christmas night ride on her motorcycle, which is apparently a relatively new but important tradition in their relationship. Bellamy rolls his eyes at the mention of her motorcycle, but seems genuinely happy to see his sister so in love.</p><p>“They do this every year, you know. Only usually it means I’m alone for an hour, or else I just go home early. This is better.” He sits next to her on the couch, closer than he had been when they were all still here.</p><p>“Well that’s good, because I have one last gift for you.”</p><p>He smiles at her. “So do I.”</p><p>“It’s not anything exciting though,” she warns. “So don’t get your hopes up.”</p><p>When he peels back the wrapping paper, there’s a journal underneath. The cover has the next year embossed on the front, just like Camille’s had.</p><p>“You’re a history teacher, and you just spent the last four months trawling through diary entries. I figured you should start making your own primary sources.”</p><p>“Thank you, Clarke. I love it. I wish I’d written down more from this year honestly, but it’s never too late to start.”</p><p>She flips back the cover. “Oh, and there’s this too, although it’s not really a gift from me.”</p><p>There are two photographs tucked in the book, faded with time.</p><p>The first has a blonde woman standing next to a Filipino man, the two smiling at each other besottedly. The second is a close up of the same man’s laughing face, his grin broad and lovely. On the back of each photo is the same three letters: MBA. <em> Mon bel ami. </em></p><p>“My grandfather?” He asks, eyes trained on the pictures.</p><p>“Yeah. They’re the only two I found, tucked away in the back of a diary that we didn’t search through thoroughly enough. I checked the others after to see if we’d missed more, but these were the only ones.”</p><p>He looks up at her, awe in his eyes. “Thank you, Clarke. Really. You didn’t have to do any of this. You didn’t have to invite me inside that first day or do anything to help me find out about my grandfather, but you did. And now I have his letters, and his photo, and his jacket. It’s more than I ever thought I’d get.”</p><p>“It’s a lot less than you deserve, but I’m glad I could help you find what was left.”</p><p>He sets the photos down and pulls her into a tight hug. </p><p>“I’m so lucky to have you,” he breathes into her hair.</p><p>She smiles against his neck. “Me too, Bell. So lucky.”</p><p>He draws back, but only far enough that he can put his palm on her cheek as he looks down at her, the other hand still wrapped around her waist.</p><p>“Yeah, but Clarke… You gave me a <em> family.” </em></p><p>“I’m glad you know about Efren now. And maybe you could look up his twin sister, see if there are any cousins you could meet.”</p><p>He looks almost nervous for a second. “That’s a good idea, and I’ll probably look into it in the new year. But when I said you gave me a family, I wasn’t talking about Efren.”</p><p>His thumb sweeps slowly along her cheekbone, and he keeps his eyes on her for several seconds before glancing over to where Stella is asleep in the pack ‘n play crib they’d brought with them.</p><p>
  <em> You are the home of my future. </em>
</p><p>She looks up at him, her stomach doing flips.</p><p>“You snuck up on us. If we’d never met, Stella and I would’ve done okay on our own, but now I can’t imagine our little family without you. This is your home, Bellamy.”</p><p>Then, before either of them can say anything stupid to try to backtrack or make this platonic, she twists her hand into his shirtfront and pulls him down for a kiss.</p><p>He lets out a little gasp against her lips but quickly melts into it, his hands curling around her in order to keep her close. </p><p>When she finally pulls back, her breathing is ragged. “In the spirit of full disclosure, I’m in love with you. Just thought you should know.”</p><p>He laughs, pulling her tight against his chest again, her head tucked under his chin. “In the spirit of full disclosure, I’m in love with you, too. I don’t even remember what it was like before I spent all my time with you and Stella, and I don’t want to go back.”</p><p>“Good,” she says, hugging her arms around his torso. “I don’t want to go back either.”</p><p>He leans back against the arm of the couch, pulling her down to lay on top of him. It’s nice, cuddled together in the warmth of Octavia’s apartment on Christmas with Bellamy, her daughter sleeping only a few feet away.</p><p>“Camille and Efren met just after New Years,” she remarks idly as he plays with her hair. “And they broke up nearly four years later, just before Christmas.”</p><p>“They weren’t very lucky. Maybe we’ll get all their luck.”</p><p>She squeezes him tighter. “I hope.”</p><p>“We’re already lucky. Things are a lot different now, and we have opportunities that they didn’t. Plus, I’m not planning to let you go no matter what luck says.”</p><p>“Me neither.”</p><p>“Oh,” he says suddenly, shifting underneath her. Not enough to dislodge her entirely, but enough that she looks up at him in curiosity. “I never gave you your last gift.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“It’s not much. I didn’t spend any money on it at all.”</p><p>She thinks about the little pile of gifts he’d given her this morning, full of all the things she’s mentioned in passing over the last few months. She hadn’t realized that he’d been keeping a list all this time so he could give her books and art supplies and all manner of things that she hadn’t been anticipating.</p><p>“I’d hope so. You’ve spent way too much already between me and Stella.”</p><p>“Yeah, but you can’t expect me not to. Especially with Stella’s cute little baby face — how could I resist spoiling her?”</p><p>“Just wait until she can talk and learns how to guilt-trip you. Then you’re really in for it.”</p><p>“Maybe I’ll build up an immunity by then.”</p><p>Under her breath, she says, “I doubt it,” to which he just laughs. At least he’s self-aware.</p><p>“Anyways, here it is. The first of our relationship.”</p><p>He passes her an unassuming envelope, which she opens to reveal a piece of paper. When she unfolds it, there’s a short message inside.</p><p>
  <em> December 25th </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Clarke, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The letter that first brought us together arrived sixty years too late. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I hope this one is right on time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I love you. Merry Christmas. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (Ton) Bellamy </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Step aside Octavia, Efren’s the boy under the floor now (or at least his things are).</p><p>I was looking through Christmas / holiday prompts in order to get inspiration, and one said something along the lines of "a Christmas card arrives 50 years after it was sent". That sparked this whole idea of a dual love story, with Bellamy and Clarke's grandparents being star-crossed lovers in the 1950s who never managed to make it work. I had a lot of fun inventing both Camille and Efren's backstories and figuring out exactly why it all fell apart for them. I don't get the chance to delve into Bellamy's heritage nearly enough in my fics, so it felt nice to really focus on that side of his life.</p><p>I also adore a good found-family, so I loved giving that to Bellamy in two ways (with Efren and with Clarke/Stella).</p><p>I hope you all enjoyed. Have a very safe and happy holidays.</p><p>Also, I do accept comments as Christmas gifts, no matter what time of year you're reading this :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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